Authors: Elizabeth Lee
“
I'll just go ahead and sign for this so you can be on your way,” I say as he climbs out of the back of the truck. This time, the icy tone of my voice catches his attention. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk to the front of the truck. “I'd hate to keep you from the obviously more important things you would rather be doing.” Leaning over the hood, I pull a pen from the holder on the top of the clipboard. My frustration with his attitude is made perfectly clear as I furiously click the plunger on the top of the pen. My eyes are busy scanning for the space I am supposed to sign when a sudden shadow is cast over my shoulder. I can feel his breath on my neck and his body resting behind mine. It must be the nature of the position we are in because I have to fight the urge to back into him. To feel his hard body against my backside. My skin is on fire and my brain immediately tries to reason that it is anger as opposed to something else.
“
Do you mind?” I snap, turning to tell him to back off. But he doesn’t. Instead, he places his hands on the truck, catching me between his muscled forearms and pinning me between his delicious body and the truck. Even under the bill of that hat he is always wearing, I can see his shaded eyes narrow in on mine. It isn’t with contempt or agitation—it is something else. Yes. He is looking at me like he wants to tear my clothes off, and I would let him.
He closes the distance between us. Here we are, chest to chest. The air around me instantly thickens, making it nearly impossible to breathe. His eyes go to mine and then to my lips, the same way they did at the bar. He takes in a shallow breath, and I can tell he is having a hard time breathing, too. I’m not sure if I should duck out from under him and run or throw myself against him. I've never been so intimidated or so turned on in my life. It is infuriating. He licks one corner of his lips and I think for sure he is going to kiss me. Seconds tick and he still hasn’t moved.
Is he waiting for me to give him the okay? Does he really want to kiss me?
I raise my chin slightly and let my eyes close. I hold my breath, waiting for his lip to fall on mine, and forget every reason I should be mad at him for. That is until he utters three words that manage to remind me.
“
No signature required.”
My eyes snap open and I see him holding the clipboard up.
Son of a bitch!
I quickly pass beside him, my fists clenched at my side, and stomp back to the house. I don’t know if I was madder about the fact that he is an asshole who made me look like an idiot or because my mother sent me out there knowing full well that absolutely nothing needed to be signed.
“
Really, Mom?” I ask as I blow through the back door.
“
Oh, that's right,” she chuckles. “I forgot that I don't have to sign for deliveries.”
I can’t do anything but shake my head.
“I'm guessing he's still not your man,” Mallory adds to fuel the fire.
“
Nope,” pops from my lips with agitation. “He's still just a dick.”
* * *
I spent my entire relationship with Wesley doing what he wanted to do on the weekends, so I was excited about spending an entire Saturday doing absolutely nothing. However, due to my new living situation, I quickly realize that Saturday is still a work day down on Mama's farm. After breakfast, and the botched attempt at civility with Cole Pritchett, my mother handed me the keys to the Jeep and told me I would be going into town to pick up a few things for her at the local hardware store. She also noted that, when I returned, I would be going out in the barn to help my sister take inventory on everything for the flea market next weekend. My mother specializes in salvaging old furniture. “Upcycling” is the cutesy nickname she has for turning old crap into something that people will pay good money for. She can take the ugliest old dressers and chairs and turn them into show-stopping pieces. The idea of having to spend the day in the stuffy old barn is nauseating.
“
Can't Mallory just go? I mean, she knows where everything is and already knows everyone,” I negotiate. If there is one thing I learned from my father, it is the art of a good negotiation. “Wouldn't you rather have me stay in and spend some time with you?” I give her my best puppy dog eyes and try to play the “quality time with mom” card.
“
Awww, honey... that's so sweet,” she beams and runs her hand over my cheek. “But I didn't just fall off the turnip truck. If you think I'm going to give in to your sweet talk and let you go back to bed, you're crazy,” she notes with a sarcastic, sugary tone. “Besides, if you're going to be living here, you might as well get out and meet some folks. Now off with ya!” She pulls the dishrag off her shoulder and snaps it at me lightly. I jump back and crinkle my nose at her with a smile. “Love ya, Whit,” she calls as I walk out the door.
“
You have a funny way of showing it,” I laugh before adding, “You too, Mom.” I am still having a hard time settling into the loving environment of my mother's house. It isn’t that my dad and stepmom didn't love me. We just weren't the affectionate, need-to-tell-you how-I-feel kind of people. Everything was always just implied. Implied with a “well done,” a subtle nod, or an extra zero on my weekly allowance.
After I park the Jeep in front of the hardware store, I step out and smooth out the coral sundress I changed into after a much needed morning shower. I really didn’t come prepared for actual country life. The only pairs of jeans I brought are ones I don’t really want to ruin with barn work. I am going to need to raid my sister's closet for some work clothes. Lucky for me, we are built the same. Same height, about the same weight. Our hairstyles are the things that keep us from looking almost identical—hers is short with lots of layers and I prefer mine long. It hangs down to the middle of my back and has a natural wave I only occasionally straighten out, especially now. Wes always liked it when I had it bone straight and parted down the center. With its length it is a pain in the ass to fix. If anything good came out of our breakup, it is the shortened time it takes me to get ready. Now, it is out of the shower, a handful of product, and out the door. Air-drying trumps blow-drying any day.
“Hello,” I call out as I walk through the open front door. It is like a time warp. The mom-and-pop hardware store is a far cry from the mega-discount stores I've been in. It is dimly lit and each aisle is only wide enough for one person. All of the shelves are packed full of everything one person could ever need for home repair, plus a few odds and ends, like a rack of candy for the kids and an “As Seen on TV” shelf.
“
Can I help you?” A salt-and-pepper-haired gentlemen pops up from behind the waist-high counter to my left.
“
Oh!” I jump, startled by his sudden appearance, almost knocking over the sunglasses rack I started to browse.
“
Sorry I scared you, dear,” he laughs. “You must be Leanne's oldest girl. I heard you were here for the summer.”
“
How did you...” I start to ask but stop short when I remember the small town way everyone knows everyone. You could sneeze on the south side of town and within an hour the entire north side is talking about your allergies. “I'm Whitney.”
“
Jim Thompson.” He offers his hand and hardily shakes it when I extend mine. “You look a lot like your mom and your sister,” he grins. “I bet Leanne sent you in for her order.”
“
She sure did,” I reply, running my finger across the top of the wooden counter.
“
Go ahead and look around,” he says, making his way toward the back of the store. “I'll grab it and bring it up front.”
Go ahead and look around? What can I possibly need from a hardware store?
I do as he said and continue to browse the sunglasses stand, pulling a pair of black wayfarers off to purchase. Time to let you in on my little secret. I am a sunglasses whore. No joke. I have over fifty pairs. Something about the fact that they always fit and rarely go out of style makes me happy. These little $4.99 gems would make the perfect addition to my collection.
After securing my first purchase at Thompson & Sons Hardware on the top of my head, I continue to peruse the aisles, aimlessly wasting time while I wait for Mr. Thompson to return. My fingers can’t help but reach up and press a trigger on a display of power tools, and the startled squeal I subsequently release when it roars to life would have been overwhelmingly embarrassing if I weren’t alone in the store. I look around as I quickly retract my hand, just to make sure. A content sigh crosses my lips when I see no sign of life in the aisle with me. It is short lived because I hear a snicker on the other side of the shelves. When I look through the tools and cords, I see one very familiar black ball cap shading watchful eyes. Reaching up, I bring the wayfarers down to cover my eyes, hoping to conceal some of the embarrassment I feel, only it makes him laugh more.
“What?” I spit out, perturbed by the fact that now he is laughing at me when just this morning he only said three words to me. “I meant to do that,” I sarcastically add.
“
I bet.” He shakes his head and begins to walk toward the front of the store. “You really shouldn't touch things you don't know how to operate,” he adds over his shoulder.
“
So, you're speaking to me now?” I retort. Apparently I am still holding a little contempt over our last interaction. His eyes drop from mine.
When he finally looks up at me, he has an apologetic smile on his face. “I guess I am. I was having a bad morning.”
A bad morning? WTF?
I probably should blow him off the same way he did to me.
Twice
. But the thing is, when he smiles, it is hard to remember anything, let alone the fact that he's an asshole. Maybe it is the dimple in his left cheek that is barely noticeable under today's stubble, but he isn’t nearly as intimidating as I remembered.
“
I'll have you know, Mr. Pritchett,” I say and follow the direction of his voice while pushing the sunglasses back on top of my head, “I have operated tools before.” It's a blatant lie, but I'm not about to give him the satisfaction of being right.
“
Really?” His grin is disbelieving as we both reach the end of our aisles, almost running smack into each other. Much like our previous
run-ins,
mere inches separate my body from his. If he wants to, he could lean down just slightly and tap the bill of his cap on my forehead. “For some reason I find that very hard to believe, Miss Vandaveer.” I try not to let my eyes settle on his lips, but the way he says my name is captivating. He doesn’t have much of an accent, just a hint of country charm, which is apparently enough to hold my attention.
“
You're right,” I grin, trying to peek under his cap and see his eyes. “Maybe you could show me how to use them sometime?”
What the hell?
Am I shamelessly flirting with a guy who only a few hours ago acted like he could care less if I even existed?
“
Oh, I could definitely show you,” he responds, much to my surprise. He slowly reaches up between us, his hand barely grazing mine, to turn his hat backward, finally letting light shine on the eyes I've been desperate to see. Brown. Not just brown. Warm, chocolaty, I-want-to-stare-into-them-for-days brown. Before I could lose myself in them completely, their corners crease as he gives me a wicked grin. “I've got another tool you could start with…”
Is he actually flirting back? Here I'd written him off as a complete dick and now he is insinuating I start with
his
tool. I have to fight back my “I have a boyfriend” spiel I am so use to giving when guys hit on me because I don’t. I can do this. I can make suggestive comments to a hot guy I hardly know and not feel like I am doing anything wrong. This is supposed to be my summer of fun, right? I should start it off with a
bang.
Cole might have been a jerk before, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the hotness he is exuding in the black t-shirt he cut the sleeves off of, revealing both sides of his incredibly rippled body and the top of his red boxers that are peeking out of the waistband of his jeans. The tattoo—a tribal design—that usually only peeks out from the bottom of his sleeve is on full display and intricately winds up his upper arm and down his shoulder blade before wrapping around to his rib cage. Yes, I can definitely appreciate this fine display of hotness. With my hands and my mouth and many other body parts that are now tingling with just the thought. Just as I am about to take him up on his offer, he raises his hand up, revealing a hammer and small box of nails.
“
Ever used one of these?”
“
Oh? You were talking about a hammer.” I try to fight back the blush that I can feel taking over my cheeks.
“
What did you think I was talking about?” He raises a brow with a questioning smile.
“
Umm...” I start to confess. As he lets out a quiet laugh.
“
Whitney,” I hear Mr. Thompson call out. “I've got your order ready to go.” I quickly turn, taking my stupidity with me, and rush to the counter to collect my mom's order.
“
Thank you,” I say, taking the box and scampering out the door. I am mortified. What in my right mind made me think he was doing anything but offering to teach me how to use a hammer? I swiftly toss the box in the back of the Jeep and pull the tailgate down. “Jesus, Whitney,” I quietly chastise myself, letting my forehead fall against the rear window.